


Belladonna

by ForLoveOfLiberTea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Human, Assassins & Hitmen, Cardverse, Crossdressing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForLoveOfLiberTea/pseuds/ForLoveOfLiberTea
Summary: 'They call him ‘the Wild Card’—untouchable, unstoppable, unpredictable. But they don’t know him as ‘Arthur Kirkland’. They don’t know that he is only human.’In which there is no ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ and the beginnings of a love is watered by blood.[Assassin x Secret Agent. Entry for the USUKUS Twiceperyear Collection: Uncommon Professions.]





	Belladonna

**Author's Note:**

> Though this is an entry for the Twiceperyear, this is also a sort of prequel to one of my future works, _To Have And To Hold_. A preview of it is available on my profile. :D
> 
> Special thanks to Ami V and LuxLox for the time you spent in beta-reading this. Thank you very much!

A cell, cold and dark, dreary and empty apart from a figure hunched upon the bloodied cement. A laugh, hoarse and hysterical, rings high and loud, echoing around the closed space.

“Fools,” she laughs, her eyes wide and crazed as she ignores the unnatural bend of her limbs. She coughs, scarlet, blood trickling down her chin as she jabs a finger towards her only witness just beyond the glass window which dominates the far wall of the cell. _"Fools,_ the lot of you!”

The woman cackles, lips chapped and bleeding pulling up into a terrifying grin. Her features, made grotesque by torture and insanity, is marred with blood and bruises. Her dark eyes flash with the light of one who has long been struck with madness. Her gaze falls upon the seemingly fragile silhouette of the agent on the other side of the glass. 

“You are a fool, young ‘Wild Card,’” she inclines her head, the carnal ferocity in her stare searing him to the core. 

Lady Elizabeth Tudor trails the fingers of her completely mangled hand along the dull metal of the shock collar around her neck. She bares her teeth in a knowing smile. The pearly whites send shivers down his spine as much as it mocks him, belittling him and setting his nerves on fire with anxiety and dread for the things which have yet to come.

He purses his lips, ignoring the way his nails dig into the flesh of his bandaged hands.

“You are no soldier. You are no agent of your beloved Squadron, little pup,” she sneers, each word creeping past his defenses and into his soul, corrupting his senses. 

“You are a mutt, only existing according to your masters' orders.” Her back snaps, her head turned towards the ceiling as she releases a bone-chilling laugh. “When all is said and done, where will you be? They will throw you away, and _you,_ who once was the hunter, will become their prey."

Her laugh grates on his ears and he clasps his hands tightly together, desperately hiding the almost perceptible tremble of his fingers.

“Keep on barking, little pup,” she croons sweetly. The agent resists the urge to slam his fist against the glass which separates him from the damn hellion. If only he could get his hands around her neck and send her to the Underworld… He shakes his head, gritting his teeth. No, he can’t disobey his orders.

The Prime Minister is absolute.

Tudor smirks at him in malicious glee, obviously taking her delight from the storm in the agent’s poisonous green eyes. 

“Keep on barking little pup,” she cackles, “we’ll see how long it takes until your dear master shuts you up for good.”

He lets his hand fall upon one of the control buttons, halting the audio feed he had been continuously receiving from the cell. He watches as the hellion shakes with uncontrollable laughter, as though she had just achieved victory when in truth she still waits for the date of her execution. She leers at him beyond the glass, waving her destroyed hand back and forth, as if bidding him goodbye with a mess of blood and viscera. The agent turns away, letting his usual mask of apathy take over his features once more as he makes his way out of the room.

They call him ‘the Reaper’. They call him ‘the Watchdog’ of the Prime Minister of Albion. They call him ‘the Wild Card’—untouchable, unstoppable, unpredictable. 

But they don’t know him as ‘Arthur Kirkland’. 

They don’t know that he is only human—and even the feared Wild Card will meet his match.

Arthur ignores the whispers as he walks down the halls, sparing the occasional agent a glance when they prove to be a little more than distracting. The soles of his shoes click upon the stained tiles, blackened and worn by the countless feet that pass over its surface day by troublesome day. Doors open and shut, agents and infrequent messengers pass him by, regarding him with wary eyes as he walks on, well aware that they intentionally create a wide berth for him to pass through.

He often muses whether his status as the ‘Wild Card’ is a blessing or a curse. Arthur has yet to decide on either, and in truth, he doubts that he even has a choice on the matter. 

His life does not belong to him, after all, nor does it belong to anyone but the Prime Minister.

He pauses before a seemingly nondescript door, similar to all the other doors in the entirety of the building. Arthur takes a moment for himself, reaching up to reassure himself that the scent-concealing patch is still there beneath his collar, undetected and still effective. He takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his hands for a brief moment or two—before he raises a fist and knocks thrice.

“Enter.” 

Arthur pulls the door open and steps inside. Upon seeing the familiar face, he offers the customary salute—his posture military straight and his right hand curled into a fist, placed over the left side of his chest. The man returns the same salute, gazing at him with his customary guarded wariness even as he stands there, doing nothing at all.

The man takes a seat in the imposing, straight-backed chair right in the very center of the administrative office, and Arthur regards him with mere apathy. He analyses him with a calculating stare, and he dares not look away, refusing to back down and submit to his instincts, even as a noticeable sense of heaviness darkens the atmosphere and heightens the tension within the room.

The silence is deafening, and a battle of wills rages on until it finds a decisive champion.

Commander Gilbert Beilschmidt of the Hellion Arrest and Recapture Squadron is the first to look away, and Arthur gives away no sense of satisfaction as the leader of the HEARTS recovers his composure once more. Beilschmidt clears his throat, resolutely avoiding Arthur’s eyes even as he issues a quiet yet stern command:

“Report, _agent.”_ Sarcasm and nearly concealed disgust color his words, and Arthur withholds the urge to bite the inside of his cheek in his agitation. He holds his tongue, restraining himself even though he wants to snap against that judicious stare he is so often faced against.

_Filth,_ they call him. _Monster, murderer, soulless puppet._

They call him many things, all of which apply to the agents themselves, as well. He may find it humorous, somehow, were it anyone else’s situation, yet it doesn’t belong to anyone else. 

It isn’t funny when he knows that this life is not a life at all. It is only a temporary existence, and his time is fast running out.

Arthur knows this, and thus he refuses to give in to the outcry of his mind. Instead, he gazes fearlessly at his superior, cool and calm amidst the other man’s obvious spite of his existence. 

“Tudor bears no importance to the investigation with regard to the rebels, the SPADEs.” He clears his throat, pretending to be oblivious to the flash of annoyance in the Commander’s eyes. “She claims ignorance of any involvement with the ‘King’ and his men. Furthermore, she has resorted to claiming that the victim, Minister Seymour, is the perpetrator for the Prime Minister’s attempted abduction.”

A fist slams against the paperwork on the mahogany desk. The Alpha barely withholds a sneer, piercing him with frigid crimson eyes. 

“And I presume that you believe this _hellion?”_ The Commander laughs, rough and harsh. Arthur only placidly stares back. “The records say that you exceeded the time limit for a short interrogation, spending over an hour and a half in the disgraced Lady’s company. That is nothing less than suspicious, especially for the Watchdog of the Prime Minister.” 

Beilschmidt taps his finger upon the desk, rhythmic like the ticking of a clock. 

“A bitch and a mutt together, how _fitting.”_

A wry smile ghosts across Arthur’s lips. 

“And how fitting is it, _Commander,_ that you are nothing but a petulant brat who landed the top position in the Squadron all because you bought the Prime Minister’s favor?” 

He walks forward, placing a hand on the surface of the desk as he leans in, forcing the other man to look into his eyes. 

“You are nothing more than a rabid pup, Beilschmidt. _Know your place.”_

With that, he turns on his heel and walks out the door.

**[ | ]**

A maid uniform, finely tailored and made of black and white silk, with a touch of cream-colored lace. A pair of brown Mary Janes. A wig in a shade similar to his own hair colour. And a pair of nonprescription eyeglasses, rimmed with silver.

Arthur takes a deep breath, steadying his nerves before he steps out of the servants’ quarters. He dips into a graceful curtsy, lowering his head and ignoring the way leering eyes rake over his form.

“Must you wear such indecent attire? I expected much more from the ‘Wild Card’.” Minister Thomas Seymour crosses his arms, his lip curling in such a way which betrays that in all honesty, he is a little more than interested in the young agent. _How utterly Alpha of him,_ Arthur internally grumbles.

Instead of voicing his thoughts, Arthur recovers his composure and stands militarily straight. His lips pull up into a soft, dangerous smile, evergreen eyes dark with warning.

“If I may remind you, _Mister_ Seymour,” his voice drips with venom, sending a chill down the other man’s spine, _“I_ am not Lady Elizabeth. Therefore, _I_ am not your plaything, nor am I here to be your eye candy.”

With fluid grace, he slips his knife out of the sleeve of his maid uniform and into his hand, swiftly bringing the deadly edge against the hollow of the Minister’s throat. 

“And if it so displeases you that I am undercover in order to _protect_ your ungrateful arse, then, by all means, _good sir,_ wait by the front door of your exceedingly obnoxious manor for the SPADEs to tear you apart.”

The Minister splutters in protest, all too aware of the blade that almost kisses his skin. Arthur’s smile only widens, his eyes dancing with a knowing light. 

“You and I both know that if it weren’t such an urgent matter and the Prime Minister hadn’t commanded me to come here, you would be long dead by now.”

_And Heaven knows that I’m not so cruel as to deprive a young boy of his ‘favourite’ uncle._

“Y-you damned _Omega!”_ Seymour snarls, latching onto Arthur’s wrist. Crimson colours his cheeks in his anger, and his grip tightens, making sure that the agent won’t get free. He raises his free hand, “How _dare_ you insult me—”

A hand, gloved in ivory, suddenly lands upon the Minister’s shoulder, halting his movements. Arthur looks up, and his gaze meets with blue eyes the colour of the summer sky. The man only smiles jovially; though, from the way Seymour flinches at the touch, it’s evident that there is more to the newcomer than what meets the eye.

“You shouldn’t treat the help so harshly, my lord,” the man says smoothly, earning another flinch from the Minister. “It’s shameful to harm another just because they speak the truth.” An unreadable glint glimmers in those eyes for a moment, and then it’s gone.

“Your impudence knows no bounds, _Michaels.”_ Seymour interjects irritably, turning around to look at the newcomer once the other man pauses for a while. “You ought to remember that I am still your master for as long as you live.”

The newcomer turns, inclining his head. A mischievous grin lights up his features. 

“Your _arrogance_ knows no bounds, either, my lord,” he presses his lips together, as if holding back a laugh. “You ought to remember that you are not the Prime Minister, but merely one of his pawns.” 

Seymour grits his teeth, flushing a darker shade of scarlet at the fact that one of his own servants seem to have betrayed him. With a huff, he lets go of Arthur’s wrist and pushes him away, making him stumble back a few steps. Without looking to see if the agent hadn’t been harmed, the Minister walks away. Arthur regains his composure not long after discreetly tucking his knife back into his sleeve for later use.

“Are you alright?”

The man reaches out a hand, concern etched into his features. Now that Arthur isn’t preoccupied with a two-faced Minister, he notices that this man is dressed in a uniform much like that of a butler’s. 

A double-breasted black coat paired with trousers of the same hue. The collar of a white, long-sleeved shirt peeks out from beneath the obsidian folds. A silvery grey tie completes the impeccable state of the man’s attire. In contrast to the well-kept uniform is the state of the other’s man’ hair, which is a gravity-defying mess of the same colour as his suit. 

Arthur forces a smile, refusing to take hold of the hand as he stands up straight, dusting off the skirt of his uniform. 

“I'm alright, no need to be concerned,” he says politely, waving off any further attempts to help him. “I barely even got a scratch, there is no need to be so concerned over the well-being of a simple maid.”

“As a butler of the Seymour family, it is in my best interests to keep all who are part of the household in top condition.” The man quirks a brow in return. “And that number includes you.”

Arthur nods warily, a little taken off guard by the other man’s announcement. The man only smiles, as though pleased, when the Omega finally relents and goes quiet. He lets himself be led towards the infirmary, fidgeting restlessly in dread. 

“What’s your name?” The Alpha pipes up again as they proceed inside the infirmary. He gestures for the Omega to take a seat on one of the beds. 

A coy smile dances across Arthur’s lips, and he shifts, finding a more comfortable position for himself.

“Why do you wish to know?” He asks, his expression soft but dangerous, hiding the predator within. 

This time the Alpha smiles, a hint of danger lurking beneath the cheerful grin. Such an expression sends a frisson of fear and desire down his spine, rendering his stomach into mush and his brain temporarily dysfunctional. 

“Why, is it bad for me to take an interest in a pretty little lady like you, _princess?”_

“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t,” Arthur says in return, playing along as if there’s an ideal solution. "What do you have to offer me in the event that I return your interest?"

An upward twist of pale lips, sly and cunning, is his answer. "I know things you don't know," the butler replies. His voice is low, heavy with dangerous intent.

With his curiosity piqued, a flash of a triumphant grin paints itself along the delicate curves of Arthur's mouth. He himself has amassed a number of incriminating evidence of the Minister’s involvement in the Prime Minister’s attempted abduction. There are other paraphernalia scattered throughout the house, but Arthur leaves them untouched. This is a ‘guard and protect’ mission where his only possible victims are a troublesome Minister quite epically full of himself, and a young woman who is his ward. 

"Consider your interest in me to be returned," Arthur says, soft and deceptively sweet. His evergreen eyes glimmer with secrets, and the Alpha returns his knowing smile with one of his own. "I look forward to more... _chance encounters,_ in the future. That is, if you manage to prove yourself worthy."

The grin he receives nearly makes him shiver with want, breath catching within the confines of his throat.

"Oh, princess," he murmurs, blue eyes dark and unreadable, "I don't need to prove myself. You're already mine, one way or another."

**[ | ]**

For a while, life at the Seymour Mansion proceeds as always, with its large halls being maintained by dozens upon dozens of servants. Arthur ultimately gets used to avoiding the Minister himself at all costs, and is often made to accompany the young lady, Jane Grey, as her own personal assistant. These duties are the ones which Arthur most favours, particularly due to the fact that the lady hardly ever paid attention to him apart from the occasional request to gather books from the manor library.

He is a maid, after all. It is his duty to clean and place these things in order. 

Apart from his duties as a ‘maid’ under the pseudonym of ‘Álice Delacroix’, Arthur also finds himself constantly followed by one of the butlers, a young man who calls himself by the name of ‘Alexander Michaels’. Despite his constant attempts to rebuff the other man’s advances, which grow more and more embarrassing and attention-grabbing by the day, Arthur can’t help but find it sweet that someone tries to catch his attention in obnoxious but endearing ways.

Perhaps if things were a little more peaceful, Arthur muses wistfully, he’ll accept the young Alpha’s offer of becoming mates. As it is, with his job as a secret agent, he can’t exactly let himself be mated by anyone.

It is in this way that the months pass them by, and the threat from the SPADEs is all but forgotten. Arthur wonders when he will be dismissed from this guard mission, which has lasted three months. He walks down the strangely empty halls of the Seymour Manor, a familiar route he takes whenever he needs to go to the library in order to fulfill Lady Jane’s whims. 

The heels of his Mary Janes click upon the tiled floor as he walks onward, skirt swishing about his legs— 

Arthur stops, frowning in confusion as the soles of his shoes are seemingly caught in a thick, viscous puddle. He squints, trying to see the end of the hall, and he realises that the lights in the library are turned off, and its door is hanging ajar. 

Horrified realisation and morbid fascination clutches at his limbs, spurring him to move onward—one step in front of the other. He grasps weakly at the bloodied doorknob as he gazes at the carnage within the room. Bile rushes up from the back of his throat, and Arthur claps a hand over his mouth, trying not retch.

Blood paints every surface a deep and dark crimson, staining the books and the papers who tell lies about the Prime Minister’s near-abduction. Minister Thomas Seymour himself is completely unrecognizable beneath every gash and rip etched into his flesh, blood both dried and new bathing his limbs in scarlet.

Beyond the carnage stands a man, dressed in a white button-up shirt, a pair of black slacks, and suspenders. He looks up—

And Alexander Michaels—no, _Alfred F. Jones,_ the notorious ‘King’ of SPADEs, only smiles.

**[ | ]**

They called him ‘the Reaper’. They called him ‘the Watchdog’ of the Prime Minister of Albion. They called him ‘the Wild Card’—untouchable, unstoppable, unpredictable.

But they don’t know him as ‘Arthur Kirkland’. 

They don’t know that he is only human—and even the feared Wild Card will fall beneath the hands of those who created him to become a monster.

Or, that is what they believe.

"Hey there, princess, have you been waiting for long?"

A crooked grin; a manic glint in those blue eyes, bright like the summer sky. Arthur can attest that he's never seen anything more beautiful.

“Not quite," he drawls, toying with the lock on the shock collar around his neck, drawing attention to the swathe of pale, unmarked skin. He feels the Alpha’s hungry gaze, and he smirks, letting his fingers dance against the dip of his collarbones and snag against the collar of the obnoxious orange jumpsuit, pulling it away from his unblemished flesh. "But are _you_ worth the wait?"

A screech of metal protesting against the worn tiles, a calloused fingertip tracing the curve of his lower lip. Arthur looks into those eyes and sees the danger, the thrill, the hunger and the carnal desire.

"Of course, my darling 'Queen' of SPADES."


End file.
